Aubergine
by Samantha Bridges
Summary: A not so nice birthday surprise for Clarice. R&R, please


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Aubergine

The glass trembles slightly in her hand as she lowers it back to the table, glass clicking against glass as it meets the surface. The overly sweetness of the wine, it was Riesling given her at Christmas last year, does little to overcome the bitterness that persistently resides there. She sighs, eyeing the amethyst glass, seeing its tint carried through the golden, pale liquid contained within its handblown sides. For all of her dislike of the syrupy sweet wine, the bottle sits nearly empty on the table next to the glass. She leans forward, almost losing her balance as she scoops the bottle from the table into her hands. The deep green hue of the bottle does not let the golden glow of the wine shine through. She looks at the label, squinting slightly and focusing on the picture instead of the words. Golden and red hues of a trembling aspen. The words are brought into focus next. _Plum Creek_. From long experience she has learned that words often hurt less than the pictures associated with them.

Words were nothing more than letters on paper in their printed form. Something that could be transcribed without emotion, laying bare the facts in detail. Unemotional words. The pictures on the other hand, shared more than the words ever could. The bottle returns to the table with a heavier clink than the wine glass, which is lifted to her lips again. Pictures, it was commonly said, were worth a thousand words. They were worth more than that to her, since no words could accurately describe the memories that haunted her day and night. Pictures laid bare the soul to the world, naked as a newborn babe, and as unprotected. The sweet wine travels over her tongue, down the back of her throat as she tries not to think. It is warmer now, the sweetness less hidden than when it had been chilled, direct from the fridge. That had been some four hours ago, not that she was totally aware of the fact.

Here she sat, Clarice M. Starling, of the ripe old age of thirty five years. Two years past the age of Christ when he left the physical world for the ethereal. The bottle of wine, far superb to this bottle she currently drank, sat collecting dust deep in the walls of Quantico. Buried as evidence in what was once called 'Hannibal's House.' Tagged, numbered, placed on a shelf, and then reduced further to an entry in a log. Words once more, taking away all of the emotion connected with the single bottle of Chateau d'Yquem. She looked down into her amethyst chalice as she finally came to conscious thought. Memories flooded her, breaking down the carefully built walls of control that kept the pictures from harming her.

She could see his face there, once again, looking back at her. It was back when they had first met, as he had stood in his cell, face white as if all the color in the cell had been leached. Only his dark sleek head and red lips imparted anything to the white scene. The rasp in his voice when he spoke, the cordialness as if he were welcoming a visitor into his office. If it weren't for the cell, or the asylum issued jumpsuit, or the paleness of his near gaunt body, one might have mistaken him for the renowned psychiatrist that he once was. Locked in a cell or standing within the confines of his professional life, there were few that could deny that he carried his professional title. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, MD. And while he had called her Clarice she had been placed in proper age and station by referring to him as Dr. Lecter.

It troubled her then, as she sipped at the wine, breaking his image and shivering at the taste. She could deny it, turn away and hide from it, tuck it back into its dark little corner and pretend it wasn't there. Another sip. She could do that, as she had done two years ago, in the house on Chesapeake; as she had done last year as she had sat with a bottle of far inferior wine to either the Riesling or the d'Yquem. Or, she reflected, staring at the amethyst tinted gold again, she could acknowledge it. Acknowledge the fact that a part of her longed to rise above the age and station she had been placed in. To rise to the point where she could come to him and call out his given name. 

_Hannibal_. The name rang through her mind, quiet at first, but growing with each repetition. _Hannibal. Hannibal. HannibalHannibalHannibalHannibal…_ It was a shock when it suddenly sounded in the room. An echo crashing back to her off the vaulted ceilings and windows. She stared for a moment, as if she had just whispered a magic command that would bring him forth from the shadows. With the thought of summoning him still on her mind and the name fresh on her tongue, she spoke it aloud again. 

"Hannibal."

It was pleasurable to her ears as she said it. The way the syllables rolled off her tongue, uninhibited. She sipped the Riesling once more, whispering the name into the glass, watching the wine ripple from her breath. It was a magical name, she conceded, deserving of the man who bore it. She felt light then, rising unsteadily to her feet. The wine glass was carried with her as she strode to the front door of the house she had purchased a year ago. As promised by the forecasters, there was a light dusting of snow on the lawns and trees. Nothing more than perhaps a quarter inch, a sugar dusting on the world. It was beautiful.

Clad only in pajamas, thin silk ones at that, Clarice crosses the threshold onto her front porch. The snow stings its cold into her feet, but she does not retreat. Instead, she plunges forwards, tripping lightly down the front steps and onto the walk. There are a few flakes still escaping the oranged clouds overhead and she twirls beneath them. She has an urge to scream out to the night, share her discovery with the world. To share his name with the world. Another sip of the wine and she is encouraged to do so. A spin takes her closer to the snow dusted grass. 

"Hannibal." It begins as a whisper.

"Hannibal." Growing, as the pictures well in her brain, presenting them one by one for her review as the sky twists above her.

"Hannibal." faster, they come faster, she spins, dizzily across the yard, unheeding.

"HANNIBAL!" it reaches a crescendo as the most searing of memories splashes across her mind's eye. Staring deep into the depths of the eyes as she is pinned in a kitchen. The tingle on her lips and jaw from where his lips had trailed. Her eyes squeeze shut then fly open again. In anger at the moment she hurls the wine glass at the garage door. It rains down shards of purple glass that sound like ghostly windchimes on the concrete. Her voice has fallen to a whisper now, and she stalks towards the shattered glass.

"Damn you, Hannibal."

She believes the voice to be in her head as she kneels at the glass, looking at the sparkling fragments in the new fallen snow.

"Damn me? Why, Clarice?"

She ignores the question. Why should she bother to answer a question posed by the man hidden within her psyche? She rises, gracefully, and heads back to the porch. The front door stands open, and the light inside spills out onto the porch, a rectangle of gold on the white snow. She is at the steps when the voice echoes through her world again, startling her and causing her to trip on the stairs.

"I asked a question, Clarice. It is impolite to not answer me."

Clarice pulled herself up, one hand on the railing, the other brushing the snow from her knees where they had met with the step. "I'm not arguing with voices in my head." she muttered, starting up the steps once again. The weight of the hand on her shoulder, the warmth that permeated the thin silk of her sleepwear made her stand straight and tense. She could feel her shoulders bunch as a shiver run the length of her spine. Pressure from the hand made her turn, and she noted dimly that the hand stayed on her shoulder. She dared not look up, for she knew what, or rather, who she would find there in front of her.

The hand stayed with her as she came a full one hundred eighty degrees on the snowy front steps. Her eyes were focused firmly on the snow, although the snow was partially obscured by a pair of legs clad in dark trousers. She dared not breathe as the other hand came up, gently cupping her chin and lifting her head. She darted her eyes away as she tried to disavow the man that stood before her. There was a click of his tongue, and she still refused to look at him.

"Am I to understand that you came outside into the winter night and called for me, yet you do not want to look at me when I come, Clarice?" the tone was soft, and it surprised her. Her will was lost as she looked to him, the surprise showing brightly in her eyes.

"I…" the beginning of the explanation fell flat on her lips as he shook his head. The hand left her chin and went to her other shoulder. She was caught now, held in place by him. She felt herself falling as she looked into the maroon depths of his eyes, falling as she had in her haunted dreams. A sob escaped her and she felt herself raise her hands, which were balled into fists. She struck him then, drawing herself closer and beating her fists against him. It wasn't that she wanted to escape his grip entirely, it was just that all of the frustration of the past nine years had surfaced, and now she had a chance to react to it. Dr. Lecter stood stoic as she pounded against him. She was strong, she had always been strong, and that was part of what had attracted him to her. Strength, in both the physical and psychological multitudes. His skin stung beneath the topcoat and suit he wore as her fists pummeled him. There was little doubt in his mind that there would be bruises later.

Clarice stopped her assault when she realized she was not getting a reaction from the man she was assaulting. His hands had stayed firm on her shoulders, his posture unassuming as she had struck him. Sucking in deep breaths, trying to calm herself, she dipped her head, looking down at the ground, then back to him. There was something odd in his eyes, something that se had never seen there, nor ever expected to see there. Her lips moved to question it when she felt a shiver run the length of her body. She felt the hands on her shoulders release, and she felt herself being slowly guided into a turn. 

"Come, Clarice, your attire is not properly suited to midnight sojourns in the middle of winter." she merely nodded as he guided her forward, allowing herself to be guided back within the warmth of her home. She stood numb as he closed the door behind them, watching as he then removed his topcoat and gloves. He moved with an uncanny ease as he stepped past her and beckoned her to follow out to the kitchen. It occurred to her that he should not be at such ease in her home, unless he had been in there before. Clarice soothed her surge of anger slightly by telling herself of all the people who could break into her home, Hannibal Lecter had to be the most welcome. 

She stepped into the kitchen to find him taking two ceramic mugs from the cabinet and setting them on the counter. He cast a simple glance at her before stepping into the pantry and removing a box of tea from the shelf. She wondered as he moved around the kitchen, every few steps casting a glance at her, how much of her house he had actually seen. Possibly, and most likely, all of it. From the kitchen pantry to her underwear drawer, her life no longer held privacy. She was a bug in a bell jar once more, carefully being studied and dissected by her admirer. It was beginning to grow tiresome after so many years. If he was going to come into her life, and wreak havoc with her emotions, then he'd better have damned good reason for it. Clarice felt her hands ball into fists again as the anger began to seethe within her. She was glaring across the counter at him now, watching his back as he set the tea kettle to boiling on the stove top. It was an agonizing wait as he turned to face her. 

She knew he had heard her when she had spoken, unintentionally, aloud once more. He crossed the small space to stand on the opposite side of the counter from her. It aggravated Clarice further that she had to look up at him, since she was seated on a barstool with her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. 

"What was that, Clarice?" he asked, his voice irritatingly calm and soothing. As if she had made a comment about the weather and he merely wished her to repeat it. Her gaze held every bit if fire that he had ever seen in it and it was surprising that she didn't explode when she replied to his question. Those eyes burned into his with an unwavering intensity, her voice threaded with steel as she spoke.

"Fuck you, Hannibal."

He blinked at the use of the obscenity. In all the years of their acquaintance she had refrained from using coarse language in his presence. It tickled him to hear her finally lose her patience with him and he found it hard not to smile. His face remained impassive under his learned control and she leaned across the counter, using her hands to push herself forward and up on it. She was eye level with him, her feet resting on the cross members of the stool as she balanced slightly precariously.

"Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on. My life has been a total hell since I met you, Doctor." she spat the words at him, and he heard the steel cables slip slightly as the anger began to be traded for a slight tinge of fear. Like the day they had met, she was determinedly unperfumed and had the slight touch of fear on her scent. It was painfully exquisite. Fear now, since she was standing up to him, finally telling him off. What a Christmas treat.

"Really now, Clarice, I had no idea you were into that sort of thing." Two could play at this game. The twist at the corner of his lip that accompanied the comment broke her restraint. With a furious growl the birthday girl launched herself onto the counter, or at least tried to. Barstools are not the most sturdy of launching points as Clarice quickly and painfully discovered. The stool flew backwards from the momentum of her pushing off it and her hands scrabbled for purchase on the Corian countertop. As she began to slip backwards with her head on a collision course with the counter she felt a steel grip snap down on both wrists. She grimaced slightly at the strength then shrieked when she felt herself hauled bodily across the Corian.

He kept his grip form and held his ground as he pulled Clarice into him. As soon as her feet were on solid ground once more, and as she was pulling herself upright, he pushed her back against the countertop. He saw her face twist and heard a growl escape her throat as she was slammed backwards. He pinned her wrists back against the counter's edge, preventing her escape. She struggled slightly, then turned a full fledged glare on him. There was a fire in her eyes, the light of which hid the warring emotions underneath.

"Damn you." she hissed, fully knowing what scenario would play itself out now. She was rewarded with a tilt of his head and a spark of impishness in his eyes.

"Yes, damn me, Clarice. Damn me for ever setting foot in your life, but as I may remind you, it was _you_ who set foot into _my_ life. It was you, in your cheap shoes with your expensive bag, who came to me. Yes, under orders from Crawford the Stoic, but you came to me. And at Muskrat Farm, you came to me once more. Clarice the savior. Strange how you became indebted to me instead." He could tell his words stung her slightly, but she continued to hold her head high and stare back at him. My, this was even more fun than the first go round.

"I had made a promise to you, Clarice, to never call on you. Now, you have called on me. What am I to do?"

"Lecter…" the name was quiet, issued without any formal titles preceding it. "You came back to the States after…"

"After I discovered Mason was set to kill me. Really, Clarice, you do think a lot of yourself if you think I simply came back because of you."

A snarl escaped his captive and a jolt of strength leapt through her. She pushed off the counter, managing to bring her hands up, attempting to reach for him. His face, his throat, if she could find purchase… Her attempt was fruitless, as it had been when she had been at the lakehouse. She found her hands being snapped back down to her sides and herself being forced, painfully, back against the counter. How dare he say that she would believe something like that. A tiny voice inside her protested, saying that there had been the glimmer of hope that he had come back singly for her.

"Did that upset you Clarice? Did I shatter your illusions? Perhaps the _Tattler_ was correct. Perhaps Beauty has fallen for the Beast. Hmmmm, Clarice?"

The words were on her lips before she could stop them. "Not in a…"

"Thousand years." Hannibal Lecter completed, a satisfied smile creeping across his face. "Really, Clarice. I would have expected something a little more original from you." He watched as her lips parted to protest, to explain herself. He watched the surprise cut through the anger in her eyes. Before she had given away nothing, tonight though, she had given away everything. He was certain he felt her tremble as his lips grazed hers. As he pulled away he watched her reaction. No tears this time, he was pleased to note, but only as a result as she was too busy with her conflicting emotions within her to cry. A ragged breath was inhaled and she looked away fro a moment, composing herself.

"Hannibal, we can't… We can't do this." she whispered, the words sounding foreign on her tongue. Again, she was being given a taste of the forbidden fruit, but she was stronger than Eve. Even when she had shattered the mirror because she could not face the image of her own incorruptibility. All she ever wanted, all she had ever tried to do, was for the lambs to stop screaming. But even if salvation from her chosen fate was offered in his arms she could not take it. When those words had escaped her lips once more she had sealed her fate. She would remain Clarice M. Starling, incorruptible, the protector of the lambs. The tears began to well as the conflict ebbed and overwhelming loss welled in her.

"We can't…" she began again, to be silenced with the weight of a finger on her lips. Strange, she had never felt him let go of her hand. He stood before her, having given her her freedom once more. She could do it now, she could capture him and do what only one other agent before her had been able to do. She could have her medal, mounted and framed, hanging on her office wall. But she couldn't do that. For a second time the mirror shattered and Clarice found herself unable to perform her sworn duty. In reality, she could no more deny him his freedom than she could deny him his life. The finger was removed, slowly run across her cheek, through the lines of tears, and then drawn away.

"No, Clarice, you cannot. There will come a time, I am sure, when you will reconcile your warring emotions, and I will wait for you." he held her eyes for a moment longer as he began to back away. She was reaching for him, trying to keep what she could not have. At least, what she could not have now. There would be a time, he was very, very sure of that. 

"No, Clarice."

The words stopped her in mid-reach, and her hand fell limply to her side. Her head finally dipped, and he could sense a sort of defeat in her. He slowly moved away and headed for the door out of the kitchen. 

"One day, Clarice, I assure you. One day."

"one day." the words were repeated back to him as he took his leave. As he pulled his gloves on once more, laying a hand on the door knob, he heard the first sob ring from the kitchen. Looking back, then away, Hannibal pulled the door open and stepped into the cold night. There was a soft admission from the kitchen as he closed the door behind him. He paused, wondering if he should turn back, sure he had heard her forbidden words. Shaking his head, refusing the impulse, he walked down the steps and continued down the front walk. A quiet whisper from his own lips cut the night air, the breath the words were carried on forming a puff of condensation on the chill air.

"If you only knew, Clarice." 

His steady stride carried him swiftly to the sidewalk in front of her house and he continued through the undisturbed snow there. A lone car sat at the end of the street, in front of an as of yet undeveloped lot. A hand in his pocket and a key fob is produced. Silently, the vehicle's headlights wink at him in the night. He walks unconcernedly to the car, finally laying hand upon the driver's side door. As he slides into the leather seat her words ring in his head once more, as they had done on the flight leaving the States.

_"Not in a thousand years."_

And his reply.

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"Not in a thousand years. That's my girl."

As the Bentley Arnage T is dropped into gear a sad smile crosses his face before he passes out of the circle of light from the streetlamp and into the darkness.

*****


End file.
